Karaoke Bathroom, Part 2 (5/11/2005)

So, I beat the guy next to me to the sink, wash up, dry off with my pocket hanky while making my way back down the hall to the room, and look into the window framed on the door to make sure this is, in fact, OUR room. I grab the handle, kick the door open and burst through all in one motion and the music leaks out into the hallway--she had already made up her mind: it takes me a second, but I'm picking up the intro to...to...In Da Club??

IN DA CLUB!!

And she's sitting in the sofa, hunched over her tiny figure and looking up at me with her arm stretched out over the table--microphone in hand and pointed at me. Her eyes, decorated with freckles, and the playfulness of her smile seem to suggest, "take the mic, ya big dummy." She'd been waiting for me, and this was my big entrance.

I shot her a quick smile back, and snatched the service phone off the wall, my eyes following the color that was now washing over the lyrics for In Da Club on the monitor.

"Clerk's desk," a voice greeted. My smile began to fade.

"Yes, we'll be down to settle up shortly."

"Okay, thank--."

I hung up.

I hit "CANCEL TRACK" on the remote, traded the microphone in her outstretched hand with a frantic, tight smile, and two-hand JAMMED them into the basket--whisking both the basket and the girl off to the clerk's desk.

I paid.

And I kept silent until I saw her cab pull away where I just shook my head in disgust and sighed, "In Da Club." I was talking to myself again.

Karaoke Bathroom (5/10/2005)

I rushed into the karaoke bathroom, leaving the girl I met the night before in the booth (in Japan, rather than perform in front of strangers at a bar, people rent tiny booths and sing surrounded only by people they know). Being a restroom that all men on that floor share, I wasn't surprised to see one guy occupying one of two urinals, so I took the one closest to the door after stumbling up the step right next to it. To the guy pissing next to me (slightly younger-looking than me), I probably just looked like some drunk foreigner in a hurry, and I was--in a hurry, that is. I mean, when you rent one of these booths for two, the action stops when one person leaves for the toilet, and I could just imagine that she might be eyeing the Wham! section and possibly considering Careless Whisper for her next song, and I had to get back quickly to stop her. So, whizzing, I mumble to myself, "musn't KEEP the ladies waiting," confident that the dude next to me, even if he KNEW English, wouldn't be able to catch a phrase starting with "mustn't", so I slow it down--repeat it (without flipping or reversing it). "MUSTn't KEEP the LADIES WAITING!!" And I'm really in a hurry to finish up so I can wash hands and leave, and by now I'm nearly on autopilot, "MUSTN'T KEEP the LADIES WAITING!! MUSN'T...KEEP THE LADIES...WAITING!!" And I probably threw in a "ya HEARD?" because this guy doesn't know what I'm saying nor the fact that a white guy like me shouldn't use Black-American phrases like "ya heard" because they make me sound affected. But, like I said, I only had one thing on my mind: stop George Michael, or well, Spandau Ballet, or Mr. Big if that's what she'd had in mind.

One Serious Songwriter (5/9/2005)

So, I'm wondering if Dan Hartman was serious--ya know, when he said "I can dream about you", and if he really felt consoled by this fact. Would this dream compensate for the lost time between him and his lover, assumably a pretty, young English maiden? Could Hartman settle for this?? I mean, assuming he truly knows what it's like to be lonely, this must be SOME dream he will have had.

I'd say I have experienced loneliness, and ya know, that's rough. Loneliness. So, a dream, for me, would either have to fill the void that lingers from separation, or COMPLETELY distract from the void. Since dreams about the person you miss, in general, just make things worse, I'm betting the latter will yield the best results.

So, here are a list of scenarios for dreams that would distract ME from lonely desperation:

Dreams where...

I am somewhere that keeps me from breathing, like a sauna

I have fallen into a toaster (or toaster oven)

My hands have seven or more fingers each, and they ALL resemble cacti

I am repeatedly stabbed and am dying

I find the "Midnight Special" yo-yo I used to have when I was a kid

OR, ANY dreams involving...

Saunas

Toasters

Cacti

Death

Yo-yos

and/or

Clowns.

I don't know--perhaps Dan Hartman's idea of loneliness isn't as complex. Maybe he doesn't feel anything that a porn and some Robitussin can't fix. All I know is I shouldn't have been watching Streets of Fire in the first place. I mean, seriously. That movie is crap on a stick. I'm not joking.